


One Step

by emmykay



Series: Back and Forward [2]
Category: Hotblood!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Centaurs, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 12:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1470382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmykay/pseuds/emmykay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friends, allies, and old grudges abound.  Belle Époque Paris makes everything better.  Rook/Langley.  À la the movie <i>Gigi</i> (1958), there are implications of centaur courtesans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Step

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in 1908 Paris, using the MGM movie, _Gigi_ (1958), as a background. In this AU, Rook fought in the Philippine-American War. Langley hires him after its end. 
> 
> Inspired by: George Leonnec's Centaur Kiss, cover of “La Vie Parisienne,"1924. I just wanted to make [ this](http://hotbloodwest.tumblr.com/post/77134044890) and [ this](http://starlock.tumblr.com/post/70435485052/protip-dont-invite-guys-who-will-pregame-a-white) and [ this](http://hotbloodwest.tumblr.com/post/38644194436) possible. 
> 
> This series has 2 parts, but you don't need to read both to understand either. Part 1 is the story of how Rook and Langley had sex and then Rook had second thoughts. It's explicit with a very little bit of plot and skippable if you're not into that. Part 2 is the continuation of that, but not at all explicit with a bit more plot. This was just an excuse for me to make up a story about Rook and Langley in white tie and tails.
> 
> * * *

_Late summer, 1908. Paris._

"Monsieur Marcelin," said the skinny young man on the stool, nervously eying the badly plastered walls of the editorial office of his new job, also known as his editor's living room. "I - "

"George," said the editor, a sallow-faced barrel of a man, biting the end of his cigar and spitting out the butt into a much-abused bowl. "I need you go to on this assignment - "

George sighed. "Monsieur Marcelin, I don't know if I'm ready - "

"I'd send somebody with actual reporting experience," the editor admitted. "But I've only got you." 

"I'm just an illustrator -"

"It's just the social pages. But I need you to get me the story." A slip of paper emerged. "Here're the details."

Somehow, the paper ended up in George's fist, where it was crunched nervously. 

"Just the truth. The whole truth and nothing but the truth. That's all you need to do." 

"But - "

"You know you only get paid when you turn in the story, right? Not for standing around my office, you understand?"

"Oui, Monsieur," George said, in defeat.

* * *

"Where are we going?" James asked, staring down at his sparkling white cravat, pulling dolefully at the front of his black tailcoat. He and his boss, Asa Langley, were sitting in a two-horse-drawn centaur-friendly cab making their way up a long wooded drive. He had a reasonably good sense of direction, but only if he was actually able to do the walking. It was better than his boss', anyway.

"Rook, leave that alone," hissed Langley. He reached up and smoothed the wrinkles his employee was busily creating in this, the latest of a line of fine tailoring that was probably destined for the garbage. "With all the time and money I put into making you look this good, the least you could do is try to make it last."

James guiltily dropped his hands. He wished the jacket had pockets. It was too fancy for that. That was the problem with being unable to wear pants. He wished he had remembered before he thoughtlessly rubbed his hands against his sides, and well before Langley gave him the evil eye. Again. 

"We're here to meet and greet and maybe make some contacts."

"And money."

Langley shot him a look that said, _Obviously._ "We need to look good. Otherwise people will think we need the money."

"We do need the money."

"We can't act like we need the money. People don't give money to you if they think you need it."

"Yeah, well, we've gotten along with very little before."

"Look, once you come into some money, you can call the shots. Until then, we do it my way."

Rook had the brief fantasy of snapping back about how Langley's way wasn't necessarily the most lucrative. However, knowledge of Asa's complete inability not to have the last word caused him to give up before he even opened his mouth. "I just want to get out of here before this tail braid gets too irritating. You remember that the hairdresser said I can't sleep with it in." 

"Yeah, yeah. I'll make sure it gets taken care of," Langley said carelessly.

James rolled his eyes. He knew how this went. For a guy who was such a stickler for appearances, Langley couldn't give a shit about after-event personal care.

James couldn't wait until they left Paris. They'd been here for two months, having left Rome at the beginning of the season. The streets here were not paved with gold, but rather an uncomfortable cobble that didn't do enough to keep down his hoof growth. If Asa continued to keep them here, he'd have to go find somebody to do a trim. James hated having his hooves looked after by new people all the time. You never knew what kind of job they were going to do. If they did a bad job, you never saw them again, and if they did a good job, you never saw them again. As for his boss, Langley didn't do hooves. Not well. James would rather risk strangers than stand for Langley's tender ministrations again.

Still, traveling half-way across the globe after his boss over the past couple of years had taught James a couple of things. One, that Asa Langley was a pain in the ass. Two, it wouldn't be too long before they were moving on. 

The cab stopped and they stepped off. 

"Why are we here again?" 

"This is no ordinary 'here,' Rook," said Langley, with a final, finicky smoothing of his white kid gloves. He frowned at James until he stopped fidgeting. "We are in the Bois de Boulogne," Asa said, gesturing to the tree-lined drive they had just driven down. (James refrained from correcting Langley's pronunciation.) "This is the Pré Catelan - " pointing to the large white building with crystal chandeliers throwing golden light through a massive glass-fronted, flower-lined wall. James could see humans and centaurs, male and female, in eveningwear milling about. "And this is a party thrown by Gaston Lachaille, one of the richest men in Paris, who opened the building specifically for this party. I heard he even hired a circus for entertainment."

"I just want to know if we were actually invited," James said.

"Let's go on in and find out," Langley said, winking. 

James blew some air of out his nose, restraining himself from asking if Asa was quite sure they were invited and had invitations. This wouldn't be the first time they hadn't. "Look, Boss, please don't try anything fancy with your conversation. You're okay with basic phrases but anything extra could be really embarrassing."

"Thanks for the tip, Buckaroo. I know you grew up all high society, but I can get by on my own. You don't have to worry about me," Langley said with a grin. 

"Maybe the French will find you charming," James thought out loud. "Especially the Parisians. They're much freer in their attitudes than Americans."

"I always manage, don't I?"

"Well - " James thought about all the missteps across all the countries they had crossed. Some he had managed to contain and some others he hadn't. "There was that time in Venice when you thought you were ordering fish - "

"It was peaches - "

"When we were with the mayor - "

"-how was I supposed to know it was a grave insult?" Asa brushed that aside. "That was one time -"

"There were the Hamburg businessmen."

Langley pffted. "No sense of humor."

"And that businessmen's association in Tokyo."

"I learned my lesson, didn't I? No more businessmen. Who knew they would take the whole honor thing so seriously?"

James said, "And then there was the time with the Russian princess when you thought you said three-horse sled -"

Asa's face lit up with the memory. "She thought I wanted a threesome. Between her and her head horseman, well, that was one slip of the tongue that worked out just fine. Juuust fine."

James sputtered.

"Pity you didn't join us."

James choked. "I wouldn't - "

"Svetlana suggested it." Langley's eyes cut over to his constant companion of the last few years. "I don't mind sharing. Never have." 

James remained silent, flushing all the way up to his hairline.

"Anyway, things have a way of working out," Asa said, self-satisfied.

"I need a drink," James muttered. 

"One thing the French are good for," Langley said. "Booze. I hear Lachaille has bought out some monastery's store of champagne for this party."

"Great. If only I liked fizzy wine."

Asa tsked. "He also had crates of Alsatian beer brought in. Did you know - "

"I only need to know how much I can drink so I can still perform - "

"I don't think you need worry about performance. I can find you a princess of your own. Or a horseman, if that's what you would prefer." Asa nudged James knowingly.

"You know - " James stopped. He shook his head, knowing whatever he was going to say was futile. "Let's just go." 

They walked by the doorman, where Langley announced, "Asa Langley and associate." The doorman nodded and gestured through the doors and into the opulently decorated building.

James blew out a breath he didn't know he was holding. 

"I'm feeling a mite peckish," Asa announced, turning his head towards the buffet table, the end of which stood a beautiful woman holding a small tray of cigarettes and cigars.

"Watch out for the cream sauces," James warned as Asa disappeared into the beautifully-dressed crowd. He wondered who he was reminding. While Asa did need the warning, it's not as if James expected Langley to listen. It was James himself who was more likely to eat something. He was starving. They had skipped lunch in Asa's manic desire to get him dolled up for this one event. He sidled up to the table, was handed a plate by a white-gloved waiter, and began to pile on the rich foods he had just warned Asa off of.

His mouth full of canape, James watched as Asa danced. He had to hand it to the black-haired asshole. Man could waltz. With an ease that belied what James was almost certain his late introduction to the art, Asa glided around the floor, a gorgeous dark-skinned woman in an exquisite silk gown on his arm. He even looked like he enjoyed it, regardless of the monkey suit.

Asshole was currently smiling down into the eyes of his partner. She smiled back. Venomously, James wondered if Asa had slipped something into her drink to make her so pleased to be in his company. 

He didn't know what had gotten into him. He'd seen Langley do the same thing any number of times before and it hadn't bothered him. At least, not this much. Oh, who did he think he was kidding. He knew exactly what was wrong. Or what wasn't. Since that night in Rome, things should have been different. But they weren't. Because he didn't want them to be. Right? 

As for Asa, he acted as if nothing, absolutely nothing had happened that steamy night. A night that had shaken James' whole concept of who he was and with whom he belonged so much he had retreated to a polite shade of himself around his boss.

If anything, Langley was ever so slightly quieter and more considerate. It was infuriating.

But tonight was the first night in many that Langley had forgotten himself enough to touch him. James didn't think he'd miss it, but he had. The little gesture of straightening his cravat was surprisingly pleasant. Even being elbowed was nice. 

Now Langley had wormed his way into a gathering of people, the center at which stood a tall, dark-haired man who looked incredibly bored. Based upon the number of people around him, James assumed that he was their host. Asa seemed to be talking at him, a pilsner glass of amber liquid in hand, looking like he was enjoying expounding on the rate of exchange or something.

God, if James actually thought he missed the loud-mouth son of a bitch while they were in each other's company all day every day, he sorely needed a drink. He wandered to the bar and spoke to bartender. They didn't have bourbon, but he always asked. He quickly downed the snifter of brandy. 

"James Evander Leicester Rook, as I live and breathe!" called out an oddly familiar voice. 

James turned his head. A graceful young filly cantered into his sight, dressed in drapey peach satin, white gloves ran from mid-bicep down to long-fingered hands, one of which was holding a fan carelessly in front of her bodice. Fanciful ringlets framed her pale face, notable for her dark eyes and large, mobile mouth. Her elaborately dressed brown hair was topped with a fashionably tiny hat trimmed with long curved feathers.

He blinked in disbelief. "Cilla? Cilla Cromwell?"

"Why, who in the world would have thought I would see you here, of all places?" Her voice was as rich and cultured as he remembered, a sound from his past. Homesickness struck fiercely.

"In Paris?" James asked.

"No, I meant in front of the bar and not on the dance floor." Her peal of laughter was gentle, and coaxed a reluctant chuckle from him.

"I never was comfortable doing that sort of thing," he admitted.

"You and Auggie neither," she said. "All those lessons, all those years. Mama was frightfully vexed." She clasped his arm, companionably. "Tell me, Jimmy, what has happened to you since you joined up?"

He paused for a moment, trying to sum up a decade's worth of experiences. "After the war, I drifted a little. And then I started working as a personal secretary."

"You? Working?" She giggled. "Things have changed."

"A centaur's got to support himself." James looked rueful. "The Senator didn't believe in his only son going out for a ruinous foreign war." 

She laughed delightedly. "Oh, that does sound like him! You know, he's the Ambassador now. It was Auggie's fault you left. He was always leading you astray." Her lower lip trembled. "I'm glad you were with him."

James placed a hand over hers, attempting to succor a hurt that could never be truly healed. "I'm sorry, Cilla. I didn't know how things would end, otherwise, I'd have never - "

"You were the most important person in the world to him. He always said. I'm so grateful you had each other," she sniffed, delicately.

A kind of knot, something he carried under deep under his sternum for so long he had forgotten its existence, loosened. He exhaled a little, his breathing easier. He smiled at her, before scrabbling, pointlessly, in his jacket without pockets. 

She blinked back the sheen of moisture in her eyes, laughing at him. "You've never had a handkerchief for any time I've ever known you." She pulled a scrap of lace from the tiny reticule dangling from her wrist, dabbing at her eyes. "I don't think I ever thanked you for the letters you sent. They were such a comfort to Mama. Papa had fits when you two ran off like that, but I know that he would have been proud to know that Auggie died a hero."

"It was an honor, Cilla." 

"I hope you have found someone else, Jimmy. Auggie would have wanted that."

"Ah, well -" James looked around, but couldn't find Asa in the crowd.

"Are you here with someone?"

"Oh, just my boss." At her questioning look, he said, "We've been traveling together for a couple of years now. I don't know what you would think of him."

"Who are his people?"

"They're not - he's - I don't - he's his own man," James faltered.

"He's a human? He must be quite comfortable, to afford a great beast like you."

"Ah, no." James struggled to explain, wondering if there was a way to explain Asa Langley to someone with the kind of upbringing he and Cilla had had. "He's a lot of big talk, and he's kind of rough, and he likes his own way." Realizing what he sounded like, James hurried to try to cover up Langley's faults. "But he's brought himself up from nothing and he's got a lot of big ideas and he loves when people laugh at his jokes and he's really interested in making himself a place in society and he's - he's - we've been through a lot together," he finished, lamely.

Her dark eyes were keen on his face. "You were always loyal, sometimes to a fault. Many's the time I thought Auggie had taken advantage of that."

"Yeah, heh." James reached for whatever manners he might have left to change the topic. "What are you doing in Paris?"

It was her turn to look discomforted. "Things got very difficult for us after Papa died. So, I - "

Langley appeared at James' other elbow. Langley's dark eyes narrowed at James' sloppy cravat, and he reached out to tug it back into a semblance of neatness. "Where are your gloves?"

"I must have left them behind on the buffet table," James admitted, embarrassed.

"Did you eat anything?" Langley asked.

"Yes. The vol-au-vent was great. Did you?"

"No. Everything was too creamy." 

Cilla gave a gentle cough.

Asa raised an eyebrow. "Now, Rook, tell me, who is this vision beside you?" 

Two sets of dark eyes narrowed as they inspected each other. James felt his insides wither at the impending collision. 

"Cilla," James said, reluctantly, "meet Asa Langley, my boss. Boss, Ms. Drucilla Cromwell." 

Asa shifted to stand a bit closer and in front of James. Something in Cilla's eyes twinkled at Asa. James entertained the notion that maybe Cilla had a speck of dirt in there, or developed a tic since last they met. Certainly he had since meeting his employer.

Something twinkled back in Asa's eye. He looked at Cilla with a kind of instant comradery. James was painfully aware that Asa had never looked at him like that. If anything, Asa had lately been looking at him like a puzzle to be figured out.

James watched in astonishment as Cilla's smile turned from the girlish sweetness he remembered from his colthood to something coquettish and fully-grown. Had he missed something? "How lovely to meet you," she said, holding out her hand. 

Asa took Cilla's extended hand and kissed the back, bowing from the waist. "Ms. Cromwell." 

"Mr. Langley."

"So how do you know Rook?" Langley asked.

"We grew up together. Her family owned the neighboring farm," James hastened to add.

"I'm the sister of his best friend. Perhaps he has spoken of Auggie? Augustus Cromwell?"

Asa shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Ms. Cromwell. Rook's not much of a talker about his past."

"Cilla," she said. "Oh, I know." She slanted a look at James. James had no idea what that meant.

"And you must call me Asa."

"Are you taking good care of him, Asa?" she asked.

"I don't do as good a job as I should, but I try, Cilla. I try," Langley said, hand against his heart. 

That dirty dog. James marveled at Langley's commitment to the lie. 

"In all honesty, he takes much better care of me," Asa said with utter sincerity. 

Cilla seemed to have swallowed it whole. "How is our Jimmy doing?" 

"Jimmy is - " Langley smirked, "-Jimmy is doing well enough, Ms. Cromwell. Of course, he started at the bottom of the ladder."

"He didn't get enough of that at home," and they both cast knowing glances at him over their shoulders. James felt like they should leave him well enough alone. 

"Has he been saying scurrilous things about me?"

"Oh, not at all," Cilla said. "Only he failed to mention what a handsome gentleman you are, Asa."

"My apologies, Cilla. But I'm not a gentleman. And 'Jimmy' has never spoken of you, but I can see his interest in protecting you from the likes of me."

Langley was spouting so much bullshit, James felt like he needed to get out a shovel. He _had_ been doing some drinking. Cilla, though, seemed perfectly steady. She just giggled. James snorted at the comedic image they made together. Neither of them noticed. 

James felt his face redden with a growing irritation at their behavior. "Now, Boss - "

"Asa," she said, and James felt certain her southern accent suddenly thickened, blossoming like a magnolia on a hot spring day. "Whether or not I need protecting remains to be seen." 

"Somebody needs to protect you," Asa said, "If only to make certain it is you and not your lovely jewels that are in danger." 

James frowned and took a more critical look at Cilla. His vision homed in on the elaborate necklace and earrings she was wearing, silver filigree holding up large yellow and white diamonds now visible that her fan had slipped. "Mama's canaries!" he muttered, astonished. He had been so taken with seeing her, he hadn't noticed the glittering gems around her face and neck.

Cilla looked surprised as she gently touched the jewels at her throat. "I'm sorry, Jimmy, I didn't know - "

"No, it's all right, Cilla. They just look so much like my mother's. How could you have Mama's jewels?" James shook his head. "Seeing you just must have brought up some memories. That's all."

"Cilla, you naughty girl, I was looking for you," said a deep, sonorous voice, the edges curled with an ill-fitting flirtatiousness.

James stiffened. If he had felt awkward with Langley meeting Cilla, it was downright excruciating to hear that voice. He'd have preferred facing the Filipino troops again over facing the centaur coming towards them. He chanced a glance at Cilla. 

James thought he had known what it meant when somebody's smile didn't reach their eyes, but Cilla's smile ended at the curve of her lips. She turned, not letting go of James' arm. "As you can see, I'm right here, Ambassador."

"Yes - " The tall, grey-haired, very dignified version of Rook stopped and stood, stock-still. He said, "Jimmy?"

James would have laughed to see the stupification on that face if he didn't suspect it exactly mirrored his own. "Sir." Ingrained habits were hard to break, he couldn't help himself. "How is my stepmother? And half-sister?"

Cilla said, quietly, "I do believe they are well. The Ambassador often receives letters from them."

"It is time we - " he made to grab Cilla's arm. 

Langley stepped forward, catching the older centaur's hand in a shake. "May I introduce myself? Asa Langley of Langley and Associates." 

"James Rook, Senior," was said automatically, while he looked like he couldn't believe he was replying to Langley.

"Your son is my business partner."

James couldn't believe his sudden promotion. It appeared his father couldn't believe it either as he looked between James and Langley.

Langley held his arm out. "I think these two gentlemen must have a great deal to catch up on, Cilla. Why don't we take a stroll around the floor?"

She lit up like one of the chandeliers that hung overhead. "I would love to." They walked off, leaving James alone with his father, staring longingly at their backs like a lamb waiting for the sacrificial knife.

"What are you doing with a jumped-up opportunist like that?" the Ambassador asked, heatedly. "You can just smell the gutter on him. Is he taking advantage of our family name?"

"If he is, it's none of your business," James said, realizing he couldn't care any less about his father's opinions on Asa. "Are those Mama's canaries?" 

"What does it matter to you?"

James snorted. "Those were not yours to give. They were from her family."

"Your Mama couldn't have known you'd disinherit yourself."

"You can't blame me for your actions. I did what I thought was my duty." Belatedly, James added, "Sir."

"Your duty? Your duty was to me. And you failed. You stained the family honor -"

"Family honor? You say that to me, knowing I just saw Cilla - Auggie's little sister -!"

"You are not to speak of it."

"Me - ?" James huffed, finding it hard to use words. "You - "

Langley appeared, alone. "Ms. Cromwell isn't feeling well. She is going back to her residence. She wanted me to tell you, Ambassador, that she is afraid she won't be up to receiving any callers for a few days." He turned to James. "I think my business here has finished. It's time for us to go." He nodded toward the Ambassador. "Good-bye."

"What is it you do, Mr. Langley?"

Langley pivoted, half-way turning back to the Ambassador. He smiled. "I trade in commodities."

Rook Senior seemed to understand exactly what Langley was saying. "War profiteer," he jibed, sneering.

Langley smiled deeper, the tips of his cuspids showing. "Necessities for living."

"Shoddy black marketeer - "

"You were a politician, were you not?" Langley's canines were fully bared in a snarling grin. "A senator?"

"Why - " 

"Forgive me, Ambassador. Of course, you're right. In Paris, it is most rude to speak of what we do for money, isn't it? Especially when we value some false sense of obligation to ourselves over the survival of our children?" Asa's voice smoothed to something poisonously silky and sweet. "Shall we talk about what we do for love?"

James watched one of the few instances in his memory where his father was left completely without words. "Good night, sir. I think we will be bidding you our adieus. Rook?"

James was surprised by the directness at which Langley made for the front door. While not suspiciously swift, Langley was usually much more circuitous in departing any scene in which there was potential for money-making. "What is going on?"

Langley grinned, an act for any observers, a manic light in his eye. "We're getting the hell out of here."

"Yeah, I know. But why?"

"No. I mean we've got to leave Paris. Tonight. Within the hour if possible." 

"Why?"

"Later." Langley smiled around his words, giving significant but brief nods, plowing relentlessly against the crowds to get to the door.

A chill struck James. "What have you done?"

"It ain't me," Asa said. "It's you." 

Out of the corner of his eye, James saw his father approach them. "Shit," Langley swore, apparently seeing the same thing. "That's probably not for us, but let's get going anyway." 

They turned, following the movements of the crowd. James saw that his father was definitely following them.

"Fuck," Langley muttered. "He can't catch us."

"If you've done something, you need to tell me," James said. "I'm not landing in jail for you, not without a reason."

Langley smiled. "But you would, with a reason?"

James sputtered. 

"Thought so," Langley sounded disproportionately pleased at catching James out. "Ah, here we go."

"Where - " James looked around to find that they were standing in the middle of a line of horses, garishly costumed acrobats and gaily decorated centaurs that had been hired for the occasion. 

Asa chatted with one of the acrobats, who handed him a saddle and blanket with a grin. James wasn't even aware Asa knew the word for "saddle" in French, never mind its sudden weight and pressure as it was laid across his lower back. "Boss - "

"James," Langley said, totally sober, his voice low, "Do you trust me?"

They might have been completely alone, the two of them, for all that Langley was paying attention to the commotion around them. Frowning, James said, "Maybe." 

"This might be the only chance we get to make a clean get away. You good with that?"

"Where is Cilla? Is she going to be okay?" James wondered.

"I don't think we need to be worried about her. Apparently, she has very rich and very powerful friends who are just waiting to see the back end of the Ambassador." Asa knelt down and cinched the saddle into place.

Rook Senior was talking to one of the security men who stood around the party. "Hurry up," said James. He twisted, grabbed Langley's arm and hauled him into the saddle.

And then they were moving with the mass of the performers, trapped amongst the cartwheelers, jugglers, dancers, all moving in a rainbow-colored convoy of horses and centaurs. It was almost worth it to see the look of disgust on his father's face.

Asa leaned forward. "You better do some fucking fancy footwork, Bucko, otherwise these Frenchies are going to know something is up."

James tried prancing. He wasn't certain it was going well as he felt Asa bouncing on his back and he heard Asa's swears. "Why am I doing this again?" Then Asa's weight shifted and he felt hands on his shoulders.

He turned his head and saw Asa standing in the saddle, balancing precariously on it. Murmurs of astonishment spread through the party. 

"I've got your mother's jewels," Asa's voice was low against James' ear. "Cilla felt that it was something both your mother and her brother would have approved of. And almost as important, something that the Ambassador would have disapproved of." 

Without any thought or hesitation, James tipped his head back, saw Langley standing right above him, grabbed him and kissed him full on the mouth.

James knew the French were more liberated than Americans. The cries of "Bravo!" and "Encore!" and the shower of flowers that poured down around them proved it. James waved and kept on prancing, all the way out of the door.

"What's that for?" Langley asked, befuddled, sliding into the seat of the saddle. "I didn't get the jewels for you. I think you got them on your own. I'm just the messenger boy."

"For saying what you did to my father."

"Shit, if that's all I had to do, I'd have told him to fuck off in the first place."

James began to run, all the way down through the park, the street lights illuminating the way. "Come on, then."

"Oh, you got jewels and now you're in charge?" Asa said, sarcastically, "Where we going, _Boss_?"

"Maybe we could decide. Together," James said. "Rook and Langley, Associates?"

"Langley and Rook, Associates," Asa countered.

"On the same line on the business card?" James pressed.

"Yeah, okay," Asa conceded. It was not the most romantic of agreements, but James was happy to take it. Knowing Asa, sharing the company name was as good as a declaration. 

"Well, whenever we get to wherever we're headed, partner, you want to help me take the braid out of my tail?" Rook asked, turning enough so that Asa saw he was raising an eyebrow.

"Fuck yeah, partner," Asa said, smiling salaciously as they rode off into the night.

* * *

Monsieur Marcelin stared at pieces his newest reporter had brought him. The story was a workmanlike piece, reasonable enough about the details of Gaston Lachaille's fete at the Pré Catelan. It was the illustration that was the problem. It was a full color image of a centaur with a man on his back, both in evening tie and tails, in a back-crunching embrace, a shower of flowers falling down around them. 

He sighed as he pulled out his chequebook. It was ridiculous. This couldn't possibly be the whole truth and nothing but. Who would believe such a thing? Men and stallions. Bah! What would come next? Cats in pajamas? Satyrs in pants? Women in short skirts getting the vote? But fantasy did increase sales. Centaurs were all the rage recently and this was, after all, Paris, where anything was possible. 

"To George Leonnec," he wrote, "for your 'Centaur's Kiss.'"

**Author's Note:**

> "The 1871 Paris Commune recognized women's right to vote but after it fell, women were excluded from voting.[citation needed] They regained suffrage in July 1944 by order of Charles de Gaulle's government in exile (at that time most of France—including Paris—was under Nazi occupation; Paris was liberated the following month)." - wikipedia
> 
> I made up the fish/peaches (pesce/pesca), and troika/threesome things. It just made me laugh to think about.
> 
> Drucilla Cromwell is an OC. I originally envisioned her as the sister of Kit Cromwell, but because I don't know anything about that character or story, I made a shadow-character of Augustus "Auggie" Cromwell, because I love the idea of southern centaurs with classical Roman names. (For no good reason.)
> 
> I only learned the name of the editor of La Vie Parisienne, nothing else. (https://secure.uwf.edu/dearle/enewsstand/enewsstand_files/Page2895.htm)


End file.
